


Get Wrecked, Edgelord

by skerb



Series: Laced Into You [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Dacryphilia, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fontcest, Kedgeup, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, Loss of Control, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, No Ecto-Penis (Undertale), Overstimulation, Polyamory, Sacrum Lacing, Sans/Underfell Papyrus/Underfell Sans (Undertale), Sensitive bones, Sexual Tension, Sibling Incest, Size Difference, Soul Sex, SpicyKustard, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), kustard - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22841380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skerb/pseuds/skerb
Summary: Having Red as an introduction to sacrum lacing was a bad idea - though he enjoyed it, Sans now has cold feet about the entire process. Edge and Red aim to help him with that, until Sans is put in the driver's seat... and Edge loses control.
Relationships: Papyrus/Sans (Undertale), Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: Laced Into You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897162
Comments: 44
Kudos: 179





	Get Wrecked, Edgelord

When Red saunters down the staircase, there’s a shit-eating grin on his face. The only difference now compared to all the other times, is that Sans trails behind him, a likely accomplice. He’s carefree and easy, a slouch to his gait where Red reeks of deceit. Red approaches their target with a quirk to his usual grin, and it broadens with every step towards his brother.

Edge isn’t an idiot. Years of having to deal with Red’s little pranks here and there have steeled him towards any air of mischievousness. It makes his defenses slam up into place - not like he’s never unguarded.

Even now he sits, all legs and books on the couch, buried in paperwork for at least the past few hours.

“Whatever it is that you’re planning,” Edge mutters without even looking up, “you can unplan it.”

Red clicks his tongue, but he hovers just out of Edge’s peripheral. When Sans silently creeps up from behind, Red slings his arm over his shoulder, all bright sharp teeth gleaming like a threat. Sans squirms slightly under the weight of his arm, but he doesn’t budge. His struggle is mostly for Red’s benefit.

Edge glances up, his eyes lingering with Sans in view. He pretends like he’s disinterested in whatever they’ve got schemed - because, let’s face it, two Sanses are nothing but trouble. It’s a shame he loves them anyway, but it doesn’t mean that Edge will put up with their bullshit for long.

He settles in, primed for the usual as he turns a loose page in the ledger he’s holding.

“That’s just harsh, boss,” Red says, nothing short of grandiose in his tone. Edge refrains from showing his annoyance. It’s likely that the crease at his temple is from narrowing his eyes at Red’s behaviour more than anything else. “Sansy here’s just got a little proposition for ya, don’t you, sweetheart?”

It’s there and gone, but Edge relents and flicks his gaze up in time to see a muted flush crawl up Sans’ neck. He’s grown fond of the look Sans occasionally sends him, but Edge can never get enough of the subtle blue blush that creeps across Sans’ face when he’s worked up. Red works him up often, but Edge never complains about the sight.

It appears that Sans is at least a little tongue-tied, which means he’s either caught off guard, or it really wasn’t Red’s call to shove him into the limelight like that. He doesn’t sputter, but his mouth opens and closes a couple of times, as though testing the silence with his teeth. It’s downright endearing.

“Uh, sure,” Sans mutters, though his expression carefully schools into something wary and sly when he averts his eyes to Red. “How, uh… how you feeling today, Edgelord?”

Edge has a feeling that isn’t the actual question, but his mouth quirks with a faint smile anyway. “Just fine, Sans,” he says with utmost politeness.

There’s something in his tone that makes Sans feel surrounded on all sides. Sans can feel Red’s arm around his shoulder tighten by a bare fraction, like a boa constrictor going in for the kill, only instead of being crushed to death, Sans isn’t sure what’ll happen. He grins nonetheless, putting on a usual farce, playing the guy with little to no cares in the world.

“Glad to hear it,” he says conversationally. Then rather forced, Sans adds; “So, sacrum lacing.”

Red doesn’t hold back his scoff, but it’s amused and jostles Sans where they stand. Edge’s brow quirks with interest, but it’d be cheating if Sans checks just to make sure. His eyes are directly downcast, as though Edge will sear a hole straight into his libido if he dares to look back. He clears his throat a little awkwardly, feeling how tense the air just became with those three words.

“Yes?” Edge replies, fully interested. Sans can practically hear the smirk in his tone, and Red leans in nice and close to taunt him with a heavy breath by his neck.

Sans can’t help but automatically twist his body away, like he’s threatening to escape. He doesn’t, it’s just for Red’s ego, not that it needs stroking. Still, Sans is hesitant when Red shoulders him a little loosely, offering with silent reassurance that he’d be completely fine with it if he called it quits.

Which is his own damned fault, really. Sans posed the idle curiosity moments before Red made a compelling argument to bring him downstairs to settle it once and for all. He’s still nervous about the whole thing. Red really did a number on him, and Sans hadn’t really approached sacrum lacing the same way ever since. He didn’t even remember much of afterwards, just the long, achy nap he took afterwards in the glow of post-orgasm.

Which is why he’s still flushed, thinking about it. Sans can’t _not_ think about it. It’s like it haunts him.

Sans gears up to clear his throat again before Red takes mercy and not without rolling his eyes, pulls Sans closer to him and takes over. “Sansy’s a bit gun-shy,” Red offers helpfully, and Sans contemplates a meteor striking his very location for how put on the spot he suddenly feels. “Can’t stop thinking about the deed, but he blue-screened throughout the entire aftercare his first time, so he’s a bit scared. He wants some help with that.” Red’s grin is lewd, like it’s all some big elaborate scheme to have some fun between the three of them. “He wants you to teach him, boss.”

Sans wonders why the earth hasn’t opened up and swallowed them whole, but apart from his usual flutters when he’s around Edge, this isn’t much different than normal. Well, it is, since Red usually keeps from directly interfering. Some would say he’s helping. _Red_ would say he’s helping.

In a sense, but not really. Some days Sans feels like it’s the equivalent of Red smashing two dolls together to see what’ll happen. Meanwhile, Edge looks ready to settle down, though with what or whom, Sans isn’t quite sure. He looks long and hard at the ledger in his lap before Edge sets it aside.

They have his full attention now. It seems that Red was right; Edge has an indulgence for lace play. Sans can see it on his face, he doesn’t need a Judge for that. He steals a furtive glance once or twice before he rolls a shoulder under Red’s arm. It’s just to get the knot out.

“Yeah.”

It’s as close to admitting what he wants as he’s ever gotten before, and the whole thing makes him tense.

Edge studies him long and hard. Sans feels small under that gaze, but not in the demeaning or frightening way like a trapped animal would be. It’s like Edge can overwhelm him, protect and hold him. Like every breath he takes is full of him, and that’s too much to bear. His soul thunders a little harder, and for a moment Sans thinks that maybe Red can feel it too, since Red chooses that exact moment to look at him. There’s a ferocity in his grin that could trap kittens.

“Then use a shoe,” Edge offers, though Sans can still feel his eyes on him, heavy and hot like a brand.

Red scoffs in derision. “Fuck that noise, we need an actual pelvis to work with.”

Edge leans back against the couch, levelling his brother with a warning look. “I’m sure the library will have one of those atrocious displays you could poke at.”

Red makes a scandalised face. “God, no, do you even hear yourself? We’re not pokin’ at some plastic dingus.”

Sans can feel Edge stare at him, like every moment under his watch moltens the air around him. He can honestly feel his face colour. It’s embarrassing.

“Red won’t last long,” he offers quietly. “He’s a two pump chump that way.”

Red doesn’t deny it, but he veils a withering glare Sans’ way anyway. Sans is brave enough to look at Red, then gets enough courage to add, “What? _You’re_ the one that said it.”

“I never said I was-”

Mercifully, Edge breaks the small bicker-fest short. “You’re entirely right. Though if you’re really so hesitant, Sans, it wouldn’t do to force you into it. Especially if you have reservations.”

“Which is why Sansy here won’t be subject number one,” Red interrupts, his grin sharp. Then he makes a pointed look at Edge.

Edge, who’s seen this coming from a mile away, doesn’t even flinch - which is admirable, since Sans does. The sudden burst of magic that nestles around his collarbones is nothing compared to the sweet heat that lingers in his hip box at the suggestion. Red can probably feel it, but Sans hopes that maybe he won’t point it out. Sometimes, he likes to think that Red isn’t that much of an asshole.

By some small stroke of mercy, Red gives his brother a bit of a brow waggle instead of drawing attention to Sans’ pelvis. Sans doesn’t understand the silent exchange between them, but it takes place in the span of a few moments, leaving him entirely out of the loop. He swallows, the dry click of his jaw signalling the end of their private conversation.

It’s not like Edge to drop his work and do what they want at their suggestion. Hell, Sans isn’t even sure if this counts as meddling in state affairs or not, but damn if he’s not totally ready for a little private one-on-one (or whatever ratio this will end up being).

If the past is anything to go by, it’s that with met with a challenge or something worth indulging in, Edge has just as much self-control as Red does. Red practically preens at Sans’ side, all veiled delight that he’s getting his way, that _Sans_ is getting his way. All it took was some compromised morals and a little swallowing of his pride. No easy feat, but here they are.

Of course, Edge hasn’t agreed to anything yet, but he’s _very_ interested, so much that when Sans sneaks a peek, Edge radiates it.

“As much as he protests, my brother wouldn’t make for an acceptable demonstrator,” Edge practically purrs. Sans can almost feel it travel up his spine. “The second you pull the thread taut, he’ll be spilling himself and profanities all at once.”

Red manages not to scowl, but he doesn’t deny it.

“And since perhaps the library would ban you for taking their strange corpse model, that leaves,” Edge almost grimaces, “myself, I suppose.”

Sans swallows again, this time staring at Edge like the entire evening flashed before his eyes in vivid pornographic detail. He already recalls the soft pinch, the pleasurable drag of cords in his foramina, and suddenly his pubic symphysis _aches._

“Um,” he says, feeling as intelligent as that sounds. “Thanks, edgelord.”

Edge doesn’t even deny the fact that when he says, “My pleasure,” it’s succinct and probably to see Sans flush. Having watched the exchange, Red rolls his eyes and bodily moves Sans away from the couch, nudging him in the direction of the bedroom. He can’t hide the excited light in his eyes from another Judge, though.

Sans still feels oddly nervous when Edge follows them, like he’s hyper aware that Edge will be at the very least naked from the waist down. It doesn’t help that for all they’re worth, Sans still has visions of their first time together permanently emblazoned in his brain, no matter how many times they treat themselves to each other’s company.

So dumbly, Sans sits where Red puts him, but not without sending him a lewd grin with a soft slap against his cheekbone for good measure. The bone feels hot to the touch when Red’s hand lingers, like the thoughts in Sans’ head are skidding to a halt so fast that it’s getting carpet burn.

The sight before him is a treat, though it’s not without Red’s usual idiocy, showing off Edge’s pants like Vanna White flipping around letter tiles until Edge finally just gives him a shove and tells him to stop fucking around. Seems like the guy expects to be surgically removed from those tight leather pants himself. Subconsciously, Sans slowly straightens, because of course he does. Edge has his undivided attention.

And by extension, he supposes that Red does too. Red makes a show of it, because he’s Red and if he were serious about anything in life, it didn’t have anything to do with the presence of pants. Edge looks like he’s debating the show, but his gaze lingers on Sans like a soft kiss, and Sans can’t help but fumble his hands together in his lap.

It’s so obvious that he’s nervous. It’s stupid, but he can’t help himself. It’s just lacing. Was it even that bad? Red had been right - he didn’t remember any of the aftercare, just glowing and softly settling into sleep after cumming so hard he felt lower back pain for the first time in years. But the mere mention of it sends such a ready throb of heat throughout his pelvis like a shot of liquor, warming him up from the inside.

The two watch him, though Red eventually backs off while Edge proprietarily went for his dresser and took out an ornate black box. Sans’ eyes fall upon it once he turned around, waiting for any demonstration like he was so ready to learn. And he was. Edge was… _thorough,_ to say the least.

Maybe that was the reason that Sans was nervous. Even though he had said that they wouldn’t force Sans into it, sitting in on their sessions always made a knot of want wash over him, hot and ready to join. He didn’t have the nerve yet. He just leans in closer, on the verge of getting up to help unclothe Edge so he was as naked as possible.

Would that be ok? Sans averts his eyes, his gaze dropping to the front of Edge’s pants, where Red had left it unzipped. There was no telltale deep crimson, no glow of magic formed. Just a whisper of what could be. Sans’ mouth waters, and he presses the heel of his palm with his fingers, exhaling a shuddering breath as quietly as he can.

When Edge brings the innocuous box near, Sans doesn’t look up, though he briefly tenses with the touch to his shoulder. Very carefully, Edge holds it out for him to take, watching as Sans’ trembling hands enclose around it.

“Be sure to have a good grip,” Edge teases quietly. Sans can feel the smirk as much as he hears it, all prickles down his neck. “It wouldn’t do to let it slip.”

Ok, that was definitely innuendo of some kind, Sans thinks. He smirks to himself, face burning hot as he adjusts his hold on the small box. Edge glides his fingertips over the top, sharp tips light in their touch across its shiny surface. Sans swore he could feel it against his throat, down his back…

How is he getting wound up from just this??

Red, the knave that he is, crawls onto the bed where Sans is perched, his grin easy like he knows exactly what’s going on in Sans’ head. Sans is only a foot away from being eye-level with Edge’s junk, which is bound to do things to his constantly roaring libido. Red takes in the fun little peculiarities, like Sans is afraid of acting it out too much. Admitting that he wanted _this_ already seems intimate enough.

So Red gives him a kiss, a soft thing brushed against his temple like it’ll help calm his skittish virgin nerves. Then, with a tone gentle enough to calm rivers into creeks, Red whispers every word, letting it drip from his tongue like honey.

“You want this, huh? It’s alright, hun. Just a little modelling, you’re not gonna get overwhelmed. Just me and him, and he’ll tell you exactly how it feels.”

Sans’ breath shivers out, his eyes hooded and his face flushed like it’s some kind of spell. His throat feels locked up, tight and achy like he wants a little more. He’s imagining it way too much and they’ve barely even gotten started. The box could be full of fuzzy worm toys for all he knew.

His hip aches when Red readjusts where he’s leaning, and Sans manages to tear his eyes away from Edge’s fly. His whole world is a warm cocoon, safety and promise no one else has offered him before. On the same side, there’s hidden delights and fantasies in no scarcity.

In short: they spoil him, both doting on him at once. Sans exhales again, managing to wear a crooked grin that no longer quite fits thanks to that bit of soft (yet effective) dirty talk.

“Oh,” he murmurs, trying not to sound as rattled as he feels. “That’s… neat.”

Red snickers against his shoulder, turning inwards as though to nuzzle Sans’ collarbone. He murmurs something nonsensical, something along the lines of him being a dumb teddy bear, but Sans ignores it in favour of looking to Edge’s face.

He looks very pleased with himself, which is only making things worse for Sans. Worse or better, actually, Sans isn’t sure. Edge does look extremely caught up in the moment, a thumb hooked into the belt loop on his pants, teasing it down to expose the bare white of his iliac crest.

And Sans wants to taste it. Damn, if he isn’t easy lately. He involuntarily leans forward, drawn by the sight, but Edge reaches out with one hand and gently cups his face. Sans is pretty sure Edge feels how hot his face is too. He doesn’t do much more than hold him, gently, barely caressing for all that Sans wants to turn and kiss Edge’s hand.

He doesn’t, but it’s a hard loss. Edge’s fingers graze down, thumbing the ridge of his jaw until it meets with the first vertebrae of his neck. Sans makes a noise like he’s parched.

“You’re so mean to him,” Red snickers almost sympathetically. His face still rests on Sans’ shoulder, cradled there with a birds-eye view of the whole exchange. He can see the magic burning brightly in Sans’ joints, glimmering in the fibers of his bones. “He sure lights up pretty, though.”

Edge makes a pleased noise at the comment, and Sans feels a heady warmth bloom in his soul for the both of them. Sans might not be aware, but Edge catches glimpses of the way his brother goes over Sans’ features, not unlike tracing the rainbow-like sheen of a snail’s shell, or spotting a butterfly sunning on a branch on a lazy afternoon. Red might scoff and get irate if anyone were to mention that he’s caught _feelings,_ but the sentiment is there, not unlike love.

Edge is less desperate to hide his own feelings. He wants them both, _has_ them both. In his heart of hearts, he’s happy. He marvels with quiet restraint how Sans opens up for him, how he’s so willing to fold under his touch. Edge can’t help the indulgent smile on his face when Sans looks about to protest as he withdraws his hand.

“Well, then. Allow me to provide instruction,” he says, purposeful in the way his voice is smooth. There’s no reason why he can’t tease a little, just as much as Red’s perfectly fine to curl against Sans’ dumbstruck body like a cat in a sunbeam. Edge hooks his other thumb into the opposite side of his waist to wrench the offending fabric down his hips. Well, if they were going to gawk, he supposed that he had little choice in the matter.

He called it without having to think about it - both pairs of eye lights settled down to his hip box, unashamedly ogling. Sans at least has the decency to look properly worked up about it, while Red just leers and presses against Sans’ side, a weight to remind him that he’s there.

There’s a bite of something else that Edge feels when Sans has trouble taking his eyes away, like he appreciates the sight and nothing else will make him think otherwise. It coils around his soul, heady and warm as Edge slips the waist further down, and he can practically feel it when Sans leans forward once more. It’s hard to repress a grin, but Edge manages it somehow.

Sans’ hands tremble, locked on the little shiny box he holds like a treasure he’s meant to guard. Red walks his fingertips over his clavicle, because if he was helpful for once in his damned life, Edge would be shocked. It elicits a shiver from Sans anyway, and Edge very pointedly reminds himself what the plan is.

To educate. To alleviate Sans’ worries, his trepidation about lace play. Which is all but forward of him, considering that they haven’t done something like this before. Sans has only ever watched. Perhaps he’d join in this time?

A thought for another day. Edge somehow manages to wrangle himself out of his pants, down to nothing but his shirt. Sans still seems enraptured of the sight, like Edge offered him a banquet of all his favourite foods, and he was there to feed him. That thought springs into an entirely different direction, and Edge’s face colours just a hint.

“The first thing,” Edge starts as he reaches for the lid of the box in Sans’ hands, “is to acquaint yourself with the implements for today’s session.”

He can practically hear the dry click when Sans swallows, even as he silently opens the box. Inside is an arrangement of pristine wrapped cords, lace and woven pieces that Edge has collected over the years. Some have small beads embedded into them, others have knots of varying sizes.

Sans is still staring at him, staring at his chest, the peek of bone under it, then down to his hip box again. For all the affection Edge feels for him in that moment, he does have to relish in that hungry view. Red gives Sans’ cheekbone a soft slap, as though he’s helping to keep Sans focused.

“Eyes up top, darlin’,” Red murmurs, a hint of a purr to his voice. Sans inhales sharply like Red just reminded him to breathe. Then he releases it, shaky and heavy.

“Yeah.”

Red grins and doesn’t look at his brother, instead his gaze falls downcast to the assortment of neat coils in the box. He leans against Sans, his arm bracing the small of Sans’ back as he points to the contents.

“Y’gonna pick one, sweetheart?”

Edge doesn’t comment on the liberal pet name usage, but he is careful to school his expression when Red looks up, as though daring him to say something. Their exchange is either ignored by Sans, or he doesn’t view it as important. Sans just stares at the box like it’s filled with fine chocolates instead.

“The knots are perhaps a bit much for a first introduction,” Edge explains, almost clinically. “As are the beads.”

“Killjoy,” Red murmurs under his breath.

Sans takes his time deciding, like having an audience wasn’t hard enough without his body screaming at him in an aroused haze. As with everything in life, his selection is mostly simple, minimal and not overly fancy. He recalls something about aglets, but again - his brain is fuzzy on the details.

It’s a deep colour, between a rustic red and deep molten orange. The ends are tipped with burnished gold, making it seem like it glows. The fabric is flat, not very textured, just thin and unassuming but wide. He definitely didn’t think about how it’d feel in his own sacrum, just in case his willpower decided to give up the ghost and cry uncle.

“I, uh,” Sans says again, nervously. “This one.”

He can feel Red chuckling at his side, like the lace he’d chosen was some ornate joke. It doesn’t keep the blush from burning anyway, and Edge looks sublimely pleased with his choice.

Oh _fuck,_ he’s doomed.

Sans conveniently doesn’t pay attention as Edge joins them on the bed. All he knows is that Red manoeuvres around him, hands burning on his shoulders and on his hip as Edge seats himself on the bed. Sans and Red sit side by side, and Edge is across from them, seated on his coccyx, knees drawn up with his arms hung loosely around them.

Edge leans back, one arm extended behind him to maintain balance. He manages to look as graceful as origami, or at least some part of Sans’ brain that still functions seems to think so. His own hands are dumb, arms heavy, clutching at the coiled length of ribbon in his hand like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Red, helpful as ever, sighs heavily and takes it from him, deliberate as he unwinds it, the end unfurling from Sans’ fingers. It’s too sensual to speak over, almost fluttering between Sans’ joints with the promise of _Edge_ on his mind.

Or maybe he’s just flat-lined, too busy making dial-up noises in his head to pay attention.

“Here we go,” Red says, jolting Sans out of his stupor. Red notes how bright Sans’ eyes have become, like every part of him is alive with excitement. Or maybe this was an elaborate prank to get Edge to submit to them. Either way, Red has no complaints one way or another.

Edge patiently awaits them, sitting with one leg bent at his chest while the other leg is curled behind his ankle. He cradles his foot with his hands, leaving a bare glimpse of ilium that peeks out from the hem of his dark shirt. Sans’ eyes finally flick down, his face burning hot when he realises that he’s been staring, all too invested in their target. Somehow, Edge being half-dressed feels much more intimate than when he’s fully naked.

Red is the first to take the lead. Which is to say, he grabs for Edge’s upright leg and pulls him towards them, like it’s fine to manhandle Edge like he does with Sans. It puts Edge on his back, who doesn’t snap at him, but the softness is gone (thank _fuck),_ and he folds his arms over his chest, scowling up at the ceiling like it’s done him wrong.

Sans’ grin is awkward, about as awkward as Edge looks, propped into his brother’s lap not unlike Doomfanger when they need to clip her claws. Sans’ hip throbs where Edge’s leg is manoeuvred around Red’s side and between them. If he touched it, Sans would be able to feel how strong it was.

It’s a vulnerable position and Red knows it, but he decides to poke the bear anyway. “So if you’re done poutin’, we’re gonna continue,” he says to Edge, who just curtly nods. It’s amazing since he does it with a countenance of someone who’s viciously restraining himself from kicking Red in the face. Then to Sans, Red sends him a wink and adds, “Eight holes.”

Sans’ face honestly can’t get any hotter, and he thinks that maybe Red knows it. He picks at the frayed ends of his sleeves as he watches, Red’s hands straddling and holding Edge’s pelvis in his lap. It looks almost perverse, but Sans can’t help the way he thinks it suits them.

Red continues on like he didn’t notice, but chances are that he did and he’s saving the best teasing for later, when things have really heated up. He keeps a proprietary hand on the left side of Edge’s hip, keeping him in place while Edge sends him a nasty yet longing look. In this position, Edge’s oddly quiet.

Red barrels on, hooking his arm between Sans’ right and leads Sans to take hold of the other side of Edge’s hip. Sans shakes a little, his opposite hand clutching tight at his leg where he thinks it’ll save him from dying on the spot. Things don’t normally get so handsy; usually there is a lot more magic involved. He can feel the way Edge’s leg tenses between his and Red’s bodies, like he’s uncomfortable.

“Will he be ok?” Sans idly wonders, and yep, that sounds about as stupid as he thought it would. “The angle, I mean.”

Red snickers again, idly thumbing ‘his’ side of Edge’s hip as he readies the length of ribbon with his left hand. “Sure, why not.”

Sans sends him a look. Red rolls his eyes.

“There’s a bit of…” he flounders, _gentleness_ on his tongue like he doesn’t want to spit it out, “…care to insertion that you need to get just right. Y’don’t just shove it in like block puzzles and call it a day.”

“Unless there are plugs involved,” Edge supplies.

Sans’ mind is reeling a little at ‘shove it in’. “Oh.”

“Right, plugs,” Red agrees, his grin a little wicked. “That’s for another time, though.”

Plugs. Neat. Sans will never have another nightmare again. He’ll just think of how it feels to be completely filled up, bent over with Edge’s cock in him while Red pushes what comes to mind as little corks into his sacrum-

“Sansy,” Red says a little softly, still amused. “You still with us?”

God, does Sans feel hot. He’s pretty sure his magic is buzzing, erratic and wild with that thought. It hasn’t even been a couple of days since the last time he’s gotten laid, either. But Edge, flat on his back, arms crossed while he watches them… it’s doing things to him. Horny, horny things.

Clearing his throat quickly, Sans blinks up from the pelvis in front of them, where his hand rests like he’s taking Edge’s basal temperature. He’s heavily aware of the fact that his thumb twitches, feeling the grain of Edge’s bones match with his own. There’s an odd connection that way, bright and tender.

Edge doesn’t grin, not under current circumstances. Sans isn’t sure if he’s ever seen it before, but he’s never truly seen the concentrated look of longing in his eyes quite like that. Red sneaks a furtive brush past Edge’s femur, closest to Sans’ hand, and the lace comes with it.

“Great,” Red says brightly, as though the moment had never happened. “Pay attention now, hun… `cause this’s about to get a little interesting.”

Edge can’t help but roll his eyes. Sans sees it and grins suddenly, of a mind to watch both Edge’s pelvis and his face at the same time. As Red brings the tip of the lace near, the golden metal aglet glints in the light, drawing Sans’ attention like a magpie.

Red goes for the upper-right foramina first, flushed with Edge’s magic. Sans thinks it looks larger than necessary, but it doesn’t stop a slight tension from flooding Edge’s body when Red pulls it through.

“Uppers are always easier to pull through,” Red explains. Sans’ eyes are drawn to the vague tic in Edge’s jaw, like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. Then he looks down, feeling a sympathetic throb down the plane of his sacrum when Red leads the tug a little towards Sans. “Here, light, consistent tugs are the best.”

Sans eyes the end of the lace Red holds out for him, realising that Red’s got the other side in his right hand. There’s a wellspring of fondness that he has in that moment, like sharing the experience of lacing Edge up is something so intimate and real that Sans doesn’t know how to address it.

So he takes the golden-red lace, slowly wraps it around his distal finger, and gives it a small draw like he’s got all the time in the world. Edge is careful to school his expression, but there’s a flush to his bones that betrays him. He doesn’t make a sound.

Swallowing against the knot in his throat, Sans asks, “That ok, edgelord?”

Edge considers, like he’s trying to remain calm and collected under his brother’s watch. Sans knows about the emotional constipation, wishes that one day he could just knock their skulls together and tell them to stop, but it’s something they have to work on themselves. It’s gotten a lot better in recent years, but occasionally Red will just bite back or push away.

Today? Red’s doing alright.

“Yes, Sans,” Edge replies, all calm under that cool expression. He doesn’t even grind up to meet with the ache of the lace like Sans remembers doing. Just relaxes back, awaiting the next part with a level gaze.

 _Yes, Sans,_ and it travels up his spine. Like it’s permission to go ahead, keep going, there’s seven more to fill. Sans makes dumb comparisons in his head, of how narrower Edge’s hips are compared to his own, and how the holes in Edge’s sacrum get smaller towards the bottom. He isn’t sure if the aglet will fit in those small spaces, and Sans feels another throb at his pubic symphysis.

Red’s next move is to spread Edge’s femurs a little more, and Edge sends him a pointed look that’s not quite a glare. Red just leers at him, because there’s no funny business here, just relax, boss. He makes it a point to demonstrate the slow insertion on the opposite side to the first, and Sans sees the slight tightening of Edge’s eye lights and the way his hand twitches against his shirt.

“Slow, like that,” Red murmurs to Sans, and leans towards him as he pokes the aglet from the underside of Edge’s sacrum. Sans can see the little glint of gold poking up, begging to be pulled. “Say, my arm’s tired. Can you get that for me?”

Sans knows what he’s doing, playing defect to introduce him to it a little more at a time. Sans clearly hesitates, so Red just sends him a wink and says, “Just kiddin’.”

Again, there’s no reply to that, but Sans feels Edge’s leg tense against his side. His back aches a little bit at this angle, but Sans holds on to Edge’s knee, like he’s just using him as an arm rest. It’s a little comfier at this angle, easier on his back. Sans can’t help but grin at Edge, whose breath is very pointedly calm and sure. He’s not falling apart at all.

What a cool guy.

“As y’go, it tends to get a lot more sensitive,” Red’s easy to explain. He pauses to look at his handiwork, a sharp phalange grazing down the centre plane of Edge’s sacrum. Edge’s legs twitch by a mere fraction with each click on bone, and Sans stares as another needy throb echoes in his own pelvis. “Dependin’ on who you’re with, you can just lace a couple and go with some oral.”

That’s cheating. Oral is Sans’ favourite thing, next to cheetos and Jeopardy. And he tends to like unravelling Red like a loose thread in a cheap sweater, so all of these things sound like a pretty good idea to him. It also explains why Red went down on him during, and Sans can’t help how he feels about that. It sounds like an open invitation, but that’s not what’s going on here.

It’s a demonstration. He can jump in any time Red invites him, though.

“We like doin’ the whole thing, don’tcha, boss?”

The noise Edge makes isn’t quite a scoff, but he makes a half-hearted attempt to sound convincing as he shrugs. “Provided you last.”

Red’s grin quirks. “He’s so hard on me,” he mock-complains, and Sans has a very vivid mental image of Red in the same position, overwhelmed and overly sensitive, perhaps crying.

God, he’s easy today.

 _Red’s_ easy today, all calm and actually gentle. Sans had fully expected some sort of impact or roughness, but so far he’s all velvet gloves when it comes to Edge. Red wraps the excess length of ribbon around his palm, giving it a slower tug, the flat of the ribbon cinching up close to the business end of Edge’s sacrum.

There’s a noise.

Sans stares at Edge. It wasn’t much, a slight crack to his voice, but it was there, bitten off and exposed. Immediately, Red slackens his grip, fumbling for the end with a soft, “Oops.”

Was that some kind of boundary? Something pre-established that Sans didn’t know about? He watches the space between them, from Edge’s gaze trained on the ceiling to Red’s buried in the cradle of his brother’s hips. Sans doesn’t know if he should poke at this new vulnerability or not.

He decides in the end not to, but he leans in a little more, putting some weight, but not all of it, onto Edge’s leg. His soul is beating faster, like the little sound Edge produced kicked down something in his Id, all but yelling at him to make it what he wants. Sans controls his breathing, his chest tighter when he sighs out.

Edge is slowly unwrapping his arms from himself every time Red touches him. One of his hands eventually falls to his side, clenching the fabric of the sheets on his bed to prevent himself from reacting too much when the gold aglet clatters against his bones. Red dropped the lace, grinning viciously with a low chuckle.

God, his brother’s an ass.

Red leans back as though hunching over has taken its toll, stretching enough to make his joints pop. Obnoxiously, he yawns, deciding that it’s best if he tries for a little more of a reaction. After all, to poor Sansy, Edge must not be having much fun at all.

He sends Edge a look, sharp teeth glinting mischievously. “Ready for number three?”

It’s a question more for Sans’ benefit, not Edge’s. Edge glowers at him, but Sans adjusts the way he sits like he can’t keep still. Red watches him out of the corner of his eye, to how Sans shivers and holds his breath as the deed is done. He’s into this, so much that Red can feel it radiating off him.

He doesn’t do anything out of the ordinary, but Red waits for his brother’s consent to continue. Edge seems to suspect something, as he’s narrowing his eyes at Red, but Red’s grin is as neutral as ever. He doesn’t want to scare Sans away from more sacrum lacing - it’s taken them this long for him to even sit in on it. He’s not going to blow it.

On the other hand, he wants to hear some noise, damn it.

Red aligns the next hole to be penetrated with the aglet, selecting one of the smaller foramina. It’s a narrow space, but the gold is soft and malleable under his touch. It’s fine; Red runs hotter than most.

Edge’s breath stiffens as he struggles with it, taking it, raw and as deep as it’ll go. His face contorts with the slow agony of being filled, and when Red carefully rocks it into a better-fitting position, Edge’s voice unlocks and he makes a hurried little noise when the tip peeks out of the other side.

It’s snug, throbbing in all the right ways. Edge’s back arches a little bit, but he’s used to such treatment - not like he lets Red get away with much anyway. What’s slipped out has already gotten Sans’ attention, rapt and focused on him like he’s been hurt and he’s not quite sure what to do. Edge’s body sags with relief as Red pulls the ribbon through to the other side, the soft sound of its fabric suddenly loud between them. Sans’ breath catches, exhaled hotly like it’s suddenly a lot for him to watch.

“That was out of order,” Edge complains, the only thing he can think of. Sans can feel the minute pressure of his toes curling against his hip as Red tries for another angle on the draw. There’s another not-huff, and Edge’s eyes narrow. He knows what Red’s trying to do.

“You’re out of order,” Red simply retorts, a fiery vengeance in his eyes. Edge glares at him, tightening his hold on his ribs like he’s trying to defend himself in spite of it all. “But hey, who am I to push? Guess he’s done, Sansy.”

Edge’s eyes flick to Sans, who backs off a little. He misses the way his weight hung over him, his attention poured heavily as he watched. Sans looks like he needs several cold showers and probably a jog through some permafrost.

He doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want to lose that, so Edge very measuredly replies, “Don’t be an idiot.”

Red’s an ass, which is why he waits for Edge to give in, all grins his way like Edge saying what he wants is a big dare. He’s definitely in a better mood today, daring his own nature to flare up.

Edge cooly gives in, ignoring the throb in his bones as his magic protests. “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

The few moments spent mentally sparring with one another gives Sans time to wind down. His fingers flex anxiously against Edge’s knee, warming the patella. His hand lingers on his pelvis, helping to hold it down just as Red inferred.

And Red’s just grinning to himself like he won the best game on the whole damned planet.

“Well, then,” he says, and Sans thinks for a moment that he’ll add ‘who am I to say no’ like he does for _him,_ but instead it’s something else entirely. “Don’t bitch.” There’s a definite crassness he uses with Edge than he does with Sans, but Sans still catches the little hint of _something else_ when Red’s feeling particularly indulgent.

Edge just exhales, sinks back onto the bed to await further destruction.

Something tells Sans that Red will probably pay for this later.

Before he can think too much about what the particulars are, Red’s arm brushes against him as though to get Sans’ attention. Sans’ eyes are drawn back to Edge’s pelvis, which is alight with heat and arousal despite Edge’s disgruntled complaints. The lace looks pinched through the previous hole, all gathered at once. No wonder Edge all but backed up off the mattress; the fact he hadn’t groaned outright makes Sans squirm.

“That’s a bit of a low blow,” Red murmurs more to Sans than the two of them. Edge’s scowl is lopsided, like he’s being slowly taken apart by this. Sans doesn’t doubt it. “Traditionally, you’re laced from the bottom to the top-” Red points with the end, and Sans notices the subtle tugs and Edge’s breaths sharpen as he does. “-to really get things goin’. Or you can shock your partner and go all over. Makes it fun when they squirm.” Red sends Edge a pointed look, and Edge looks almost furious. “How’s about you choose what’s next, Sansy?”

Sans can feel both of their eyes on him even as he seeks out what’s left. In all honesty, he really wants to try that ‘oral’ part, but when this had happened to him, he couldn’t get it up no matter how much he tried. The shadows play along Edge’s ilium, the crests and flares of his ischiums, and Sans wants to taste it all.

Mercifully, he manages words instead of a reedy sound, but his voice is tight with want. “C.. column b, two down. Seems, um. Seems not as snug.”

“Column b,” Red laughs, but he gets the gist of it. Edge’s gaze sharpens on him as Red pulls him closer, dabbing the end of the ribbon on his tongue. “Nice choice.”

Nice. Great. Neat. Perfect. Sans is dying, and Red’s giving him praise. He can’t help but wonder how Edge’s pelvis straddled in his lap would feel like, wanting nothing more than to experience the heat of it radiate into his own. Sans makes an involuntary whimper when Red nudges the end back down into the place where Sans indicated.

There’s a huff from in front of them. It wasn’t Sans - nor was it Red. A flush of colour scalds Edge’s face, but no matter how much he holds himself still, there’s a bleed of tension that quivers up his body, like it’s everything he can do to be steady. There’s a soft cacophony of breathless noises, like he’s figuring out how to breathe. And Edge suddenly can’t handle it.

Red makes a interested little noise, like he’s found something shiny to play with. He curls the ribbon just a little, but he doesn’t pull it through.

“Hey,” he covertly whispers to Sans, though not so quietly that Edge can’t hear him. “Pick another.”

So Sans does, not trusting his voice too much; he points instead. His eye lights are blown wide so he doesn’t miss a thing. Edge’s eyes are squeezed shut, no doubt concentrating on keeping himself in control. When Red tugs just enough ribbon for slack on the other side, Sans feels another traitorously hot throb arch down his pubic symphysis when Edge stops himself from twisting. Instead, his breath catches, huffs, his voice barely there when Red pulls on the ribbon, both sacral holes stimulated by the wide ribbon as it passes through.

Sans’ magic just drops into place, unbidden and without warning. It throbs, wet and warm, but he ignores it in favour of watching Edge being taken apart. Edge keeps his eyes closed but he’s flushed, his gasps a little more out of control. Suddenly, it seems like a lot.

Red makes an indecisive noise, like he’s considering his options. His hand still rests on Edge’s hip, keeping him in place even though he’s not going anywhere. Sans is enamoured with Edge’s ragged breaths, until Red rather pointedly says, “Shit, I fucked it up.”

Sans almost feels that meteor-headed-towards-earth feeling again, but he can’t help but stare. His mouth feels useless when Edge wordlessly protests, a bare groan to his voice.

“I mean, we could keep goin’,” he adds, though Red doesn’t sound particularly pleased with the idea. He points it out for Sans, who’s just confused at this point. He’s pretty sure it looks alright, with his limited experience, and he doesn’t really want to stop. And by the sounds of it, neither does Edge. “But,” he sends a wicked grin Sans’ way, “I wanna do it right.”

“What d’you mean?” Sans manages to get out, though honestly it feels like he’s played right into Red’s hands this way.

Edge makes a noise, unbidden in his throat as Red pulls aside the length of ribbon from one row to the bottom from the top, and it overlaps one pristine little hole. Sans feels like it’s somehow lewd, showing him like this, like it’s some kind of panty shot. He swallows again, leaning over Red’s shoulder to peer at it.

“Oh. You did, too.”

He can feel Red’s grin at his neck, the sharp points of his teeth testing bone as he gets near. Sans shivers when he feels the teeth move against him as Red speaks, just for him, “Y’wanna redo it?”

His body says yes, fuck it, this is exactly what he wants. Something tells Sans that this was all part of Red’s scheme, but then again, he wouldn’t have involved him if he needed this exact outcome, would he? Sans shudders out a breath, eager to nod, ready to let Red set his teeth upon him, but Red doesn’t. He just allows Sans to ease back on his legs, frustrated beyond all reason.

“Ok, then,” Red says, all too eager to get his restart. “I need two hands for this. So, uh… be a doll, will ya?”

Sans supposes he’s the doll Red’s looking for, so while his soul beats with renewed fervour, Red gets up and urges Sans over to switch places.

Which is…

A lot, suddenly.

Sans’ grin tightens when he feels the warmth of Edge’s pelvis settle into his lap, holding onto him like he’ll be given whiplash the second Red unties the laces. His counterpart shoots him a secretive grin as Edge stares at them both, heat in his eyes for what’s about to happen. He’s got a lecture ready on his tongue, but Edge is effectively disarmed when Red starts to very slowly tug the lacing free.

There’s a reason why Sans doesn’t remember the unlacing when it came to his own session - Edge twists, unable to stop the grunt when Red takes the longer length and flits it through. It’s slow, but it’s not enough to keep the constant stimulation from rubbing in all the right ways. And because it’s easier to lace up than out, Red’s diligence in being careful, of being _gentle,_ isn’t lost on Sans.

He leans to one side to put his weight onto Edge to keep him down, placing a hand on the column of bone between Edge’s pelvis and ribs. Edge can’t not make any noise, but it sounds desperate, like he’s wound up tightly and Red has to keep him in place. Sans’ eyes are drawn to Edge’s face and the way his fingers claw into Red’s shirt, the pleasure building in his expression until it becomes too much, and-

Red just stops, the fucker. Edge sags, one remaining little hole threaded and one curse dripping off his tongue like he’ll spew it if it means dragging Red down with him.

Sans repeats the swear, his soul feeling thick and hot with the sight of it. Edge didn’t cum - not from what he can see at this angle, but he was very nearly close. Red doesn’t treat his brother like he does Sans, but there’s shielded affection in the way he unhooks Edge’s hand from his shirt.

That, and there’s the look in Red’s eyes like he wants more of this. Like it doesn’t happen very often at all. He’s all easy-going, listening for safewords or a ‘no’, but Edge doesn’t give him either. Edge just lies back, waiting for his breaths to calm.

Then, very quietly, with no hint of scorn; “You’re an asshole.”

Red grins more to himself, sees Sans looking at him, and turns his head away like it’ll help to hide it. Sans feels too many emotions over that, though it makes him warm, like he could curl up at their side or between them to get in on this feeling. He smirks to himself, his fingers aching where he’s keeping Edge’s hips down, rosy-crimson magic stuttering angrily in his joints.

It’s his turn now.

He knows exactly why his magic gathers at that point. Edge’s body is heavy and warm, welcoming him. This whole position is vulnerable, though not as much as the ones they’ve had Sans in before. He’s got to wonder what it looks like from Edge’s point of view, of how it _feels_ to be wrapped up while the two people he loves watch with hunger in their eyes.

Sans’ throat feels achy for how tight it is. He swallows, preparing, wishing that he so desperately didn’t want to taste Edge right now. There’s no way Edge can form anything. The small perforation into his sacrum from the golden-red lace is enough to disrupt any magic from coalescing. All that’s there is a soft smudge of heated magic, raw and buzzing at Sans’ fingertips.

Edge _aches._

He’s distracted, and what’s worse is that Sans is still pretty nervous. He’s in the driving seat, cautious to make one wrong move and hurt him. Intent blinds him by coaxing his fingers to glide over heated bone, measuring out the distance between Edge’s joints with his hands.

‘Nice’ doesn’t even begin to describe how it looks, but he must whisper it anyway, since Red scoffs at his side (rude), and Edge’s face colours a little more. It doesn’t happen often; he’s probably embarrassed. Sans needs to get himself under control and see what’s actually allowed.

He’s got a pattern in mind - if he can carry it out. He stares at Edge’s sacrum, lining the points in his head to where he can fit the ribbon. His mouth waters every time his eyes drop to the narrower holes, thumbing the golden tip in his hand, ready to be used. He understands why Red did it. It helps to focus on the task at hand.

Red leans in closer, his grin a little indulgent as he whispers, “So, what d’ya got planned for `im?”

It feels like a lot to mention out loud, so Sans just rolls a shoulder, feigning secrecy. He figures it’ll be a surprise for them both, though Edge has something like trepidation clouding his usual expression. The emotion is out there in the open, but Red doesn’t act out. He doesn’t say a damn word.

It’s a good day.

Sans wonders how far he can push it. He tilts his head, careful to manoeuvre Edge’s hips more comfortably between his legs. The ribbon must jerk a little since Edge’s breath catches and his hips lift just a bit, and it sends a throb of heat down to Sans’ neglected sex. He inhales with the reaction, just trying to be good. He’s a lot more mindful when Edge eases back down into his lap.

“Sit around behind him,” Sans finally says, finding his voice. He sounds unnaturally calm, which is amazing because his hands are almost shaking. He needs to curb that, otherwise Edge’ll feel it. _Red_ will notice.

Red’s eyes narrow like he knows what Sans is doing, but he’s weighing his options heavily. He clearly doesn’t hesitate, but Sans knows the rigidity with which he moves. Red’s got a _little_ bit of fight in him for how squishy he’s feeling right now, primed for a good show. Being Edge’s lap pillow on the other hand… he wasn’t sure if he was entertaining that too much or not.

His grin twitches when he sees the secretive smile on Sans’ face, not quite there, but not so invisible that a Judge can’t pick it out at a glance. Chances are that Sans wants them both across from him, so he can see just how much they’re into it. Sans always had a thing for exhibition.

Red patiently waits, levelling a roguish wink Sans’ way. A beautiful dusting of blue creeps up Sans’ throat, unbidden, like he’s suddenly ashamed of where he is. That won’t do. Red needs to fix that.

“Arright. Tell me where you want me, sweetheart,” Red goads softly. His knees are close to Edge’s skull, his hands at his sides like he dares Sans to orchestrate his every move. He sees the hesitance flash in Sans’ face for a moment, then it shifts to desire. Red moves his hands closer to the sides of Edge’s face, barely cupping his harsh cheekbones. “Y’want me to hold `im for ya?”

Bingo. Sans’ flush brightens considerably. Red can’t even fault him for wanting that, though something gnarled and venomous twists in his soul, yelling with silent voice. He treats it like a thing that _Sans_ wants, not him. When he hoists Edge up, he ignores the look it earns him as he awkwardly walks forward a bit on his knees to get closer. That silent part of his soul is assuaged, but it aches with something not unlike longing.

He’s none too gentle with Edge between his legs, nestled onto the crook of his knee. He can tell how conflicted he feels about it, like Red knows Edge is all too aware of the mind games going on to properly enjoy himself.

And hey, maybe it’s something Sans can do for him, since he can’t. Red can just ignore the way his body tingles when Edge presses against him, his magic aching at his pubic symphysis when he feels his brother hold back a startled breath as Sans touches him.

Which isn’t as abrupt as the breath beckons, but Sans is a little too gun-shy to barrell into things just yet. He’s still flushed, but he takes in the sight of his lovers, watching with anticipation like cuddling ferrets. Which is an odd thing to fantasise about, Sans realises, but hey, his libido’s free game, apparently. He’s done little more than grasp under Edge’s coccyx to slide the wide ribbon into place and then to where it needs to be, and he already feels Edge tense up.

It was too proprietary, too quick. Sans shyly averts his eyes from Edge’s pinched expression, but he memorises the way his chest trembles when he holds in a steadying breath. Sans is thankful for the fact that the first hole for his pattern is in the correct spot; he only needs to slowly glide the ribbon through so that there’s slack on the other side.

He doesn’t miss the fact that Edge is suspiciously quiet during the whole ordeal, like he’s trying to keep from showing too much. Sans knows exactly how it feels, and by the lurid grin of sharp teeth overhead, so does Red. It’s a waiting game of sorts, to see if Edge protests or says anything.

But Edge is patient. He’s been patient this entire time, both with their relationship and during this whole process. He’s been in control. It’s weird to see him lay back and take it.

So Sans pauses for any protest, but Edge levels him with a steady look. He’s all smoulder under the surface, a heated pool of hidden desire and he’s just _waiting._ Sans draws in a slow breath and once more adjusts how he sits. His heel rocks under him a little and he shivers with anticipation.

Sans’ brain is a mess, which is why he can barely form coherent thought when he starts. All Sans can think of is the stuttered way Edge inhales when he puts his hand lower into his pelvic girdle, his warm fingers mapping out the trail of neat rows that run in pairs down its surface.

And Red doesn’t goad him, doesn’t tell him to hurry up. He’s probably dying of boners, though Sans doesn’t see any evidence to the fact. He just sees Red eye him, suspicious yet intrigued.

Since the first point in the pattern he wants to make is ‘column b, two down’, Sans moves his hand beneath Edge’s rear with the aglet between his fingers. He’s careful to hold Edge down, otherwise if he lifts his hips again Sans will miss where he’s aiming. He’s focused for that first insertion, holding the aglet so tightly that his fingers start to tingle. He guides the tip of the ribbon into the hole above where it’s already started, feeling a bloom of warmth flood the bone.

Edge doesn’t make a noise, but Sans is hyper-aware of his eyes on him as his chest trembles a little bit. He makes sure to cap the end of the aglet with the pad of his finger so it doesn’t fall, and pinches it from the inside so he can draw it up. He’s probably going slower than he really needs to. But the way Edge’s legs tense at his sides is heady, and even though Edge can’t form anything with his magic, it collects and scatters like bouncing neutrinos.

Sans inhales slowly, keeping his breaths quiet so he doesn’t miss any sound from the skeleton between him and Red. Carefully, as though speaking too loudly would shatter the silence, Sans whispers, “That ok, boss?”

He feels magic shoot down under his fingers, only for it to scatter once again. Sans swallows, pouring his gaze over Edge’s expression to pick out how he felt about that. Edge looks enamoured, half-pensive and very aroused. It’s taking every part of him not to unravel under his touch.

It’s empowering, sending a shockwave of want throughout Sans’ soul like electricity.

Red’s chuckle is light, like he knows what’s happening but he was pleasantly caught off guard anyway. “Playin’ dirty that way, Sansy.”

Sans can’t help but flush, not even daring to peek at what Red might look like. He’s focused on Edge, waiting for a green light.

Edge gives him one with a slight nod. “Apart from the fact I’m getting prodded in the back of the head… yes, Sans. You’re doing well.”

Neat, he’s doing a good job, apart from giving Red those boners he predicted. Sans can’t forget the tangled way Edge says his name, the fullness with which he speaks. He isn’t even sure if he should answer, so he doesn’t. His face feels plenty hot already.

“Sans,” Edge considers, and Red looks up at the ceiling like he’s wishing for a very noisy helicopter to leave. There’s no aircraft. He just sighs long and hard because he’s tired of the fucking interruptions. If it were up to Red, Sans would be wrecking Edge six ways from Sunday already. “And you?”

Sans’ eyes drift down the expanse of Edge’s chest and back up again, his grin a little crooked. “Me? Yeah. Sittin’, uh. Sittin’ pretty.”

Red’s grin brightens, while Edge seems to smirk to himself. He curls a hand over his chest. At least he looks comfortable. And extremely pleased with himself.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you don’t need to tell _us.”_

Oh, how helpful Red is with stoking his libido. Sans doesn’t know what to say to that, but laments that he walked right into that. Now he feels even more flushed, flustered on top of everything else. Sans doesn’t reply with anything other than a crooked smirk, his joints burning with telltale magic as he leans down a little more to continue.

He crosses the two lengths of ribbon over one another, draping the remainder over the left side of Edge’s ilium for safekeeping. Sans’ throat feels as tight as the space the pattern calls for next, the memory still too fresh of how it felt to be completely filled up replaying in his head. He lowers his hand, taking in the way Edge watches, anticipation clear on his face. When Sans flicks his attention to Red, he’s about as rapt as his brother, but he winks and blows Sans a mock kiss when he notices.

Sans tries for the lower left side, the very last in the row. He adjusts how he holds it, but Edge’s caught breath fuels him so much that Sans can’t help but _squeeze_ the crest of his ilium when he works the tip through. Edge’s breath shudders out, tight and with just a hint of a plea. There are no words, but Sans is ok with that. If Edge actually said anything, Sans thinks he’ll die of arousal.

He’s trying to be careful, but the space is very narrow. So when he starts to pull the ribbon through, Edge’s slight jolt makes him freeze and look up to gauge the situation. His eyes are wide, Edge’s gaze locked on his hands. He understands that Edge has some control issues, doesn’t allow himself to fully submit, but Sans isn’t expecting him to outright hold back.

If he’s a little clumsier, maybe it’s because he’s been hanging around Red too much. He isn’t sloppy, but he guides the ribbon with his hand, leading it until it’s set firmly in place. Near the end, Sans could hear the soft guttural noises of restraint, from when he tested the tautness of it.

Red just breathes out, hard and fast like he’s been holding his breath. “Hot damn.”

Sans takes it as a compliment, almost absently grinning to himself. He wants to take his time, and the minutes slowly carry on. The universe hands them all the time in the world for this.

The next in the pattern is one foramen up, which gives Sans less trouble. It’s the fourth perforation in Edge’s sacrum, and Edge still hasn’t come undone yet. He’s struggling, huffing out like every movement surprises him. His hand slowly twists at his shirt, wringing the black fabric in an almost sensual way.

Sans takes care to twist the ribbon so it stays flat against Edge as he works. It looks better that way, instead of bunched up and twisted around. Experimentally, he slowly runs his thumb against the ridge of bone along the side, and Edge _sighs._

It makes a bleed of wetness seep from his cunt, and Sans realises that he’s been tense this entire time. Now he knows why Red paused to stretch, though Sans doesn’t want to stop. He wants to keep going, to coax more of those noises out of Edge. He squirms a little where he sits, lightly curling his toes when he bends his back. Then he goes on to the next.

Which he realises in no short order that there is no fifth pair of holes, so Sans wraps the flat of the ribbon around the heel of Edge’s coccyx. The reaction is a little more subtle, like it’s putting sublime pressure and building sensitivity on such a small area. Edge’s legs cinch up closer to Sans’ body, trembling. His face and joints are more flushed than before, his breathing coming in shorter huffs. His brow arches up, colour high on his cheekbones, and Edge parts his teeth just a little.

Sans makes sure that the ribbon is secured before he loops the aglet under the last weft to keep it in place, because it’d be unfortunate to have to adjust after everything is done with. Though something’s to be said when Sans has the mental image of Edge making more noises between them. Like maybe he’ll pull at Red’s leg, lift himself up, and-

Sans swallows the lump in his throat, ready to drop the golden tip through the foramen just under the very first. He slides it in instead, and Edge’s hips lift with the penetration, suddenly forcing it deeper and Edge _groans,_ full-throated and bare.

Fuck.

Sans keeps his thumb planted over the spot, because suddenly he’s lost all higher brain functions. If Red chose that moment to speak, it didn’t register but a soft murmur from over his brother’s shoulder. Edge might’ve replied. Sans can’t tell. He’s fucked. Holy shit.

He must’ve blue-screened there for a moment. When he can finally see straight, Sans is breathing hard and heavy. Red tries again, his voice that same lilting sultriness he uses for Sans when they’re in bed. Which is just as well, considering where they are right now. Sans blinks stupidly through his arousal haze.

Red’s grin is bright. He’s got an arm slung around Edge’s throat, the other cradling his face. It’s not affection, and Red would shank him if Sans mentioned that it looked suspiciously like an embrace. But there’s a fierce protectiveness in the way Red holds himself, and a gentleness that’s generally unseen with him. It could be argued that he nuzzled Edge’s skull to fluster Sans further.

Sans doesn’t know, but he _does_ know that he likes it.

“I said,” Red drawls, all grins and daring in his eyes, “you with us too?”

“Too?” It sounds dumb, tumbling from his mouth like something foreign. Does that mean that Red checked in on his brother, just to make sure he was alright? Did Edge nod, or reply, or was Sans too preoccupied and missed it? He swallows, his eyes lowering to his handiwork, and his fingers ache with the need to touch. “Y-yeah.”

“Y’seem pretty worked up, y’know. All things considered,” Red carries on, like him cradling Edge’s head in his lap happens every day. Sans looks back up to him. “Nice an’ ready for somethin’ special.”

Sans thinks he is, too. He draws in another breath, levelling his gaze to Edge’s face. Now there’s unshielded want in his eyes, nothing hidden between the lines. As far as pleasure goes, Edge wants more, feels his magic pulsing between the ribbons.

Slowly, Sans unclenches his jaw and adjusts how he sits. The heel of his foot lines up nicely with the lips of his pussy, and when he eases back down, there’s a small burst of pleasure when he rocks forward once.

His pattern doesn’t look like anything right now, just an errant zigzag with an X at the bottom. Sans wants to give Edge diamonds, which is a silly thought since monsters don’t hold the same appreciation for shiny stones as humans do. But the pattern stands out so far, sharp golden reds in contrast to stark white.

Sans gets the urge to give Edge a taste again and he doesn’t know if he can deny himself. He doesn’t know if it’s how it goes, though he’d argue that Red didn’t care when he was lacing _him_ up. He gives his head a shake. He needs to focus.

Sans gives the ribbon a slightly faster draw, leading it by pulling it closer to his body so it creates friction against the lowest point of the inner bone. Edge hisses and grabs onto Red’s sleeve as his back arches. Sans can taste how much he burns. He’s so close now. Edge can’t help but make a choked off noise when Sans tightens the ribbon close to his sacrum, adjusting it as he goes.

The next hole is directly below that one, smaller again. When Sans feeds it from below, he has to go in from an angle, but his hands are clumsy and shy with how many times he misses. The soft nudging over-amps the sensitivity so much that Edge’s legs tense again, trembling, _shaking,_ just on the verge of losing control.

He’s holding back a moan, bare vocalisations that Sans can feel in his soul. The continuous shudders travel against his hips where Edge has him straddled, and when he eventually works it through, Sans pulls on the lacing and can feel a steady throb ache in a hot line down where his magic is gathered.

Sans’ breaths are ragged as he weaves along the established pattern, picking up and accidentally plucking a weft on his way. His hand freezes when Edge tightens his legs around him, shaking a little more. He’s almost pinned between Edge’s femurs.

“Oops,” is ready at his tongue, though it’s not as carefree as Red’s had been. Regardless, Red shoots him a knowing grin, then licks his teeth for good measure. Sans can’t help but recognise the offer for what it is, but there are only two holes left. Maybe some adjustments, because he’s starting to _really_ like how Edge squirms in his lap.

Sans is partially distracted when he pushes the aglet into the top-most left side. Red’s murmuring catches his focus and he keeps his hand still as Edge quivers, a bare, ragged moan escaping him. Edge’s eyes are wrenched shut, his face bloomed with colour. He’s holding onto Red for dear life, like he’s just _so close._

And that’s precisely what Red murmurs, his voice throaty despite it all. “Cummin’ already, huh? What was that, number six? Bet y’just love being filled up so much. And by Sansy too, hmm? Who would’ve known…” Red sounds especially smug about that, his voice almost gravelly. “Bet it’d be fun to leave ya like this.”

Edge huffs an answer. It’s not necessarily coherent, but the hasty gasp makes Sans’ soul feel a little slick. Absently, Sans rubs once over his chest, leaving the aglet just lingering in the space, undisturbed.

Red takes this as his cue to reach down, take the end of Edge’s shirt in hand, and slowly pull it up to expose his ribs. Sans’ eyes are drawn to the sight, scarred bones heaving slightly as he leans forward. There’s the bright glow of Edge’s soul hidden further up, the sleek shine trickling down from the organ to his spine and ribs.

He hasn’t cummed yet, but he’s close. Sans’ mouth waters as he leans further up, stilling with Red’s silent invitation.

He doesn’t touch the soul, but the fluid released by it is viscous and hot, and when Sans reaches for it, he dabs his fingers into it and traces the smear down the column of bone. He searches Red’s expression for a moment, finding him calculative and curious. Sans can’t say anything to that, but he looks down to Edge, who’s half-bent over himself thanks to Sans’ little discovery.

He kisses him, leaning down with one arm as his magic throbs with longing. It’s slow, lingering and sweet, and he feels Edge relax under him after the moment of tension passes. Sans smiles against the kiss, knowing that this is a sure-fire way of getting his way with Edge. It’s to distract him by shielding his view from Sans’ hand even as it dips lower to find the ribbon draped over his hip, the first part of the lace.

“Who told you to stop,” Edge indulgently murmurs, and his voice is husky as it is impatient.

Warmth fills Sans’ soul with the prompt, and while he’s got a devious plan, he can’t help but bend down and capture another kiss for an answer. Edge huffs into his mouth, manages to unlock one of his hands from Red’s jacket sleeve to grasp behind Sans’ neck. He pulls him down, deepening the kiss. Sans moans against his mouth, softly, knowing what Edge is trying to do - whether or not he knows he’s doing it is another thing altogether.

Probably because he’s used to driving so much the steering wheel is permanently glued to his hands. Sans just figures they can make out a little while Red suffers or enjoys the show. Or both.

“Thought I’d give you a break,” Sans replies breathlessly once they’ve parted, looking far more rumpled and frustrated as a result. Edge smirks to himself, something bright in his eyes.

“You’re doing me no favours,” he retorts fondly, but loosens his hold on Sans’ neck to thumb down to his clavicle.

Then that’s it, Sans will cave if he allows this to keep going the way it’s going. Edge will explore with his hot hands, they’ll find the bridge of his spine, notice the magic in his pants, delve down to cup his pussy, and-

Sans does him dirty. He nips at Edge’s throat with his blunt little teeth and reaches between them, letting Edge’s hands wander for the moment. It won’t last long once Sans finds that tail end again, and when he does, he gives it a slow but firm pull.

It has to ache. It tightens the lacing, tugs Edge’s hips forward a bit, especially when he gasps out fast and hard. He just about tears into Sans’ t-shirt, but the bitten off noise he makes goes straight to Sans’ brain, preventing him from letting the ribbon fall slack. It does slip a little, though Edge’s breaths have quickened to the point where the little vocalisations are louder now, peppered with swears and _yes._

 _Yes,_ because Edge wants this. _Yes,_ and Sans’ whole body tingles, ready to serve. _Yes,_ it feels good and Sans can feel it echo in his cunt. He doesn’t dare breathe, because _yes,_ Edge’s body tenses so much that his legs lock around him. It’s a symphony of positive reinforcement, and Sans’ mind is drunk on it, just _yes, yes, yes, yesyesyes-_

Edge locks up, shuddering, his eyes tightly shut as he grabs for both Sans and his brother. Sans is too focused on Edge to see, but Red’s hand cups around Edge’s grasp on his sleeve. Red’s breath stutters, his body sympathetic for the pleasure surging throughout Edge’s body.

Sans is sure even in the din of Edge’s orgasm, that he can hear the faint pitter of fluid dripping onto bone, feels the wet heat from his chest. Gradually, Sans eases his hold on the ribbon, and Edge trembles, not trusting so easily.

Red sounds absolutely delighted when he says, breathless and hot, “Fuck, you’re mean.”

Sans can’t help but scoff a little, drunk on endorphins, but he checks in with Edge, since Red is being an obtuse fuck. He gets in real close, his body heavy with desire, and whispers between them, “Hey, you ok, edgelord?”

Edge makes a noise of complaint deep in his throat. Red just shrugs, but his eyes are bright.

“Blue?” he enquires helpfully, and Sans touches Edge’s face to see if his eyes refocus. Edge squints as the world stops being a place where he’s suspended in reckless pleasure, everything humming like a whirlwind.

“Fuck no,” he rasps, and every breath he takes shudders.

Conversationally, Red looks to Sans and says, “He’s good.” Then, realising how that sounds, Red amends that, giving Edge’s face a firm pat that sounds more like a slap, “No safeword. How many left?”

Sans wants nothing more than to curl up on top of Edge and soak up the heat of his magic, to feel him tremble against him. Something in his soul twinges at _safeword,_ like he hadn’t considered it. He was wrapped up, caught up in the moment. He laughs breathlessly, tracing the curve under Edge’s eye socket. It’s a little wet.

Then he considers Edge, watching the way he moves. His breaths are harsh in the wind down to orgasm, his body gently spasming with the aftershocks. Even though Sans had let go of the ribbon, it’s still cinched up and tight against his sacrum. There’s no relief, just an endless throb of stimulation. The noises Edge makes have Sans entranced.

“Fuck…” he almost whispers to himself.

Red snickers despite everything. “God, you two are so fucked up,” he says, though he isn’t complaining. Sans can’t quite figure out how Red means it, but he looks down to Edge’s pelvis, slightly trembling under his own.

“Two, er--I mean three,” Sans supplies belatedly, having discovered the very first foramen had slipped loose during his enthusiastic wreckoning of Edge. “One slipped out.”

Red groans, filthy. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

Sans’ grin is a bit abashed but he doesn’t know how to reply to that. Instead, he tests the viscosity that remains on his fingers, his gaze drifting down to Edge’s face again. As he recovers, Sans can’t help but picture him flushed and arched into his touch like he needs it, and it’s doing miraculous things to his brain. Like shutting it down, for instance. Edge is good at that even on a good day.

“Y’wanna continue, Edge?” Sans asks just to make sure.

A shiver travels down his back as Edge hoists himself up, propping himself on his elbows to look at the handiwork in his sacrum. Then he tilts his head back, exhausted, and groans again, not even caring that during his examination Edge backed into Red a little. It puts him half-propped between the two smaller skeletons, but Red doesn’t complain about more bones in his personal space. He’s oddly complicit. Probably because he wants to see what else Sans’ll do, like this is a huge turn-on for him.

Edge nods his consent, breathless to the point where he lets out a pleased chuckle.

“Have at me.”

Sans’ traitorous mouth wells up with the invitation and he can’t help but send him a crooked grin. Seems like Red has an idea of his own, prying Edge’s hands from him so he can wrap his arms around Edge’s middle. When Edge makes a vaguely enquiring noise, Red snaps his teeth at him and murmurs for him to shut up. He’s planted right in Red’s lap, legs splayed invitingly, and Red gives Sans a pointed look.

“You heard `im,” he says, all deviousness as he recognises the invitation for what it is. Edge isn’t like this often, but he’s likely so riled up he can’t stand it. He’s at their mercy, wherever that leads them.

Sans exhales, long and hot. He’s half bent over Edge’s body, but he sinks down, parting a button to test the bone beneath the shirt with his tongue. He makes a pleased noise in his throat, hands gradually moving down, yearning to touch everywhere. And Edge responds with stuttered, deep breaths like it excites him.

Edge thought _Red_ had a mean streak, to the point where the entire paint bucket was used instead of a brushstroke. He didn’t think Sans was as cruel, but limit-testing was a favourite thing of his. His sacrum feels impossibly tight but he can manage that; it’s the subtle little tugs when he moves or when Sans’ shirt drags across the lacing that gets him going. Edge huffs a little, unable to stop the noises when Sans produces a small moan like Edge touched him instead.

He can feel Red’s breaths against his neck, and occasionally they’ll quicken when Sans does something. Sometimes, Edge thinks Red’s responding to _him,_ but he can’t entertain that thought for fear it’ll somehow get back to his brother. He sighs out instead, lolling his head back against Red’s shoulder when he feels Sans’ tongue at the base of his spine, then his fingers inch in between the lacing, testing its strength.

A whimper rushes out of him, unbidden as he tries not to vice Sans’ head between his legs. He freezes, but no harsh words come from behind him. Red tenses by a small margin, but nestles in close as though watching Sans is the best thing he can do. He feels Red’s cock pressed firmly against the flare of his hip, and Red’s hand rests down to keep Edge from bucking when Sans’ tongue delves lower.

Despite his desires to see it through, Edge can’t help but close his eyes and lean back, using Red for balance. Sans’ tongue laps at the slick from his soul that’s collecting down his spine, leaving a mess. A shortsighted error on his behalf, and he’ll pay for it later, since this is his bed.

Thoughts are effectively torn from Edge’s mind, head blanked as all he can feel is Sans’ fingertips testing the tensile strength of the ribbon around his tailbone. He curls his toes, attempting some vestige of control, but he shouts, his magic pooling down to form an achy cock for Sans to fuck himself on. But it disperses, leaving him hungry and desperate for touch.

“Fuck-” Edge moans, tight and achy. It’s all he can do not to kick, but he thrusts a hand down to cup Sans’ smooth skull, holding him to his pubic symphysis. He feels a pinch higher up his sacral plane and arches his body again, losing control.

There’s a blinding burst of pleasure as the magic disperses and another foramen is stuffed to the brim with silken ribbon. Edge isn’t quite sure where that one landed, but the area is filled, tight and stinging at the same time. His entire soul just _throbs_ with ecstasy to the point where he can’t control the little noises he’s making. He just flexes his fingers against Sans’ skull, so gratified for his skilled tongue and his penchant for oral.

Soon, his body is tightening down on the sensation, grabbing where he can to hold himself up, not expecting his brother to help. He’s a steady weight at his back, a rumble to his voice as he’s quick to inhale sharply next to his temple. Like he’s getting off to this, too.

He hasn’t lost control like this in a long time - neither of them have. Even during sex, during _anything,_ there’s always a layer of control, and Edge has been robbed of it. Sans can feel his body surrender to him, unnaturally hungry in a way he’s never been. And Red just handed him over on a silver platter-

He can’t do that - Red isn’t to blame. Edge is grasping at straws because he can start to feel tears on his face. His body is shaking so much he can hear his own damn bones clatter in his head. The safeword never comes to mind, because while on every level he _wants_ this, he’s scared for the aftermath.

His throat stops for a moment, stuck on a small noise when he feels Sans’ fingers trace soft circles around the uppermost pair of foramina. Edge’s soul weeps, hot and heavy and dripping as he craves _more._

He swears again, his hips betraying his every desire to keep still. He grunts and pants, trembling, so _close-_

He feels Sans lean in close to him, can smell his smoky-sweet scent like the headiest of colognes. Edge makes a reedy noise, unable to see through blurred vision, just aching in a way that says he’s at Sans’ mercy.

And then there’s one more point, a small little bubble of pleasure that bursts and drowns out all other sensation. Edge can’t help himself, snaps his legs tightly together, narrowingly entrapping Sans between his legs. It appears that Sans is amused by something, since the chuckle Edge hears does strange things to his brain.

“Fuck,” Edge mumbles again, because on some level of clairvoyance, he’s exhausted. Which is a fucking miracle, all things considered.

“Yeah, honey,” and for a moment, Edge’s affection-starved body thinks it’s his brother’s voice and gives in to a traitorous shiver. But it’s _Sans_ that’s somehow learned his brother’s stupid dirty talk. And the stupid thing is that Edge is actually reacting to it. “Think you c’n take a little more…?”

It’s such shy and unpractised dirty talk, but it does things to him anyway. Edge rolls his head to the side, craving to be held but not, and he grunts a half-hearted protest when Red’s arm hoists him upright a little more.

Sans walks his fingers up his sacrum, gently pressing where the laces intersect, and with each one Edge feels a light go off somewhere in his soul.

“Just two more,” Sans says, promise in his tone. He sounds so pleased, like seeing Edge this way, exposed and vulnerable, isn’t upsetting in the least. “Two more. Think you can do that for me, boss?”

 _Boss,_ like Sans belongs to him, like he’s not playing chicken with the collar by having it wrapped around his wrist. _Boss,_ like he’ll do anything for him, that Edge can keep him like he keeps his brother. It’s enough to stall his brain, a shot of dopamine directly to his soul. Edge feels Red huff a laugh behind him, and he knows he’s hesitated for too long. Still, it made him feel _happy_ in addition to being wanted.

It’s all he’s ever hoped for. Groggy with sex and the kinetic tension of magic restrained, Edge groans needily, even makes some vague attempt to get closer. Red laughs again, his arms tender and firm around his ribs.

Edge thinks he hears, “He’s gonna take good care o’ya,” but he can’t trust his brain right now. Especially with a universal doppelganger that’s learned to push his buttons. Obviously Sans said that; and that’s all he can think of.

He murmurs his name, weighted and hot. His body smoulders, aching under Sans’ touch. He nods his consent, because he wants more, has never felt so alive.

The small tenor laughs (again? He can’t tell), and Edge doesn’t even bother holding back how he quakes nor how Sans’ hands drag filthy noises from him. His legs are gently coaxed apart so make room for Sans there, who holds him steady. Edge feels like he’ll bruise, awaiting marks he’ll treasure later.

Two more, and he’ll be all strung up. His body betrays him by shuddering with want, so much that Sans has to grip his femurs tightly. There’s a visceral satisfaction that thrums in his soul when Sans holds him down, keeps him steady as silver fluid soaks through his good black shirt. Edge groans, a hand on each of them, readying himself for the second to last penetration as he voices his impatience with soft vocalisations.

There’s a proprietary hand on his femur, keeping him spread open. Edge writhes as the next hole is pierced through, twisting his head to bury against his brother’s shoulder, a ready shout at his teeth. He doesn’t know where his hands are, he’s just drifting and now vowels are the only sounds he knows.

“One more,” he thinks he hears. An anticipatory shiver snakes down his spine, bringing prickles to the surface like bubbles in water. He’s stroked, coaxed to calm like he’ll fly apart if this continues. There’s only one more and Edge is overwhelmed and exhausted.

“Fuck,” he shakily whispers, and he feels a bump against the side of his head. It feels too much like a nuzzle, and in his cum-drunk haze, he’s starting to believe that it was.

“Just one more, Pap,” the voice behind him murmurs against his skull.

Edge sucks in a sudden gasp like it’ll save him from sobbing out when the last foramen is filled. He barely even feels it when Sans pulls it through, slowly, oh so slowly. Does Edge see? Hell if he knows, he’s got his eyes closed, tears on his face, just floating as his magic stutters and crackles like a taser between his hips.

“There we go,” he’s not sure where the voice comes from, but it elicits another shiver. “Wow, you really gave him diamonds, didn’t ya?”

Sans sounds breathy, but his half-chuckle speaks volumes. Edge wants to reach out and touch him, hold him tightly to his soaked chest. As he floats along, he reopens his eyes, dazed and winding down. He still feels the aftershocks of Sans’ adjustments and how his hands are careful and gentle. Maybe he’s tying the remainder of the lace into a knot. Maybe he’s just mapping things out with his hands.

Edge no longer knows.

“You still with us, Edge?”

Sans hasn’t felt this fulfilled in a long time. His magic is heady and warm, blooming down his body like the first touches of morning. He’s tucked in on himself, almost curled over Edge’s body, but he feels _good._ Red’s cheated by slipping a purr out here and there, but on the whole, Sans is pretty damned satisfied for how things turned out.

As he waits for an answer, he checks over his handiwork. A pair of diamonds snug against Edge’s sacrum, laced perfectly like the way he’s laced Papyrus’ boots. He’d had a lot of practise and he wasn’t sure how he’d do it, but Sans feels accomplished.

There’s a rush of endorphins that makes him dopey, so he doesn’t even register Red’s question until much later, and when he does, Red just laughs at him, all fond and easy. He’s curled around Edge in his lap, holding up his brother and nuzzling close to his neck to keep him near. There’s no excuse other than the fact that Edge is so completely ruined.

“I said,” Red murmurs, still chuckling, “you take `im, I’ll grab somethin’ to clean him up.”

Sans stares at him like Red casually asked him to hold onto something precious from a museum, until he sighs and beckons him over. Edge makes some half-hearted noise at the back of his throat when he’s jostled, then carefully eased off his lap.

Red’s taking great pains to be gentle, and it hits every need in Sans’ soul. As Red gets up, Edge is draped into his lap, a warm weight thick with exhaustion. It doesn’t spring Sans’ fight or flight instincts, but it makes him feel both fragile and protective.

Cautiously, he wraps his arms around Edge’s shoulders to guide him near, as Edge starts to push himself up onto his elbows. He’s got an expression on his face that will be emblazoned in Sans’ memory until the day he dies, quivering and heady gasps tumbling from his mouth.

And he did this. He did this to _Edge,_ and it feels exhilarating. Red watches them for a moment before he slides off the bed, unsteady like his legs have fallen asleep. And when he disappears into the bathroom, Sans touches Edge with such fondness in his soul that its intent makes a shiver travel throughout Edge’s body.

“Ok,” he relents, his voice low so Red hopefully can’t hear it over the sound of running water. “I’m probably not as skittish anymore.”

Edge groans his agreement, every part of him trembling. Sans supposes it’s the endorphins fucking him up, so he tries to ease him up a little more. Edge’s arms look wobbly to the point where Sans doesn’t trust that he can hold himself, and most of the magic to his legs are probably diverted elsewhere thanks to the lacing. He hooks his arm around Edge and pulls him against his body, absently nuzzling his skull with his own and letting his free hand rest on the dip in Edge’s spine.

He’s not really sure how to do the aftercare thing, apart from cuddling and maybe cleaning up. All he knows he learned from Red, who saunters back into the room, free from his jacket but sporting towels over his shoulders like he’s a pool boy at a fancy resort. He’s also got some washcloths, one of which he tosses at Sans.

Red eases back onto the bed, mindful of where his brother’s legs are. He can see the dotted line of the reversed pattern in Edge’s pelvis and sets the towels aside. He peels away Edge’s ruined shirt, leaving it in a wet ball on the floor beside the bed where it can be stepped on later, and rolls a warm towel over Sans’ shoulder. Then he moves over so he can help Sans slide Edge’s body onto it, because Edge’s soul had released so much that the spaces between his ribs look sticky and shiny.

Edge protests again, but he’s no help to move. Sans just holds him where Red puts him, and indulgently watches as Red works. He’s mindful of where to put his hands as the hot washcloths are pressed against Edge’s spine, eliciting a hiss, then a relieved sigh. Sans feels Edge press against him, like he wants to curl up.

It’s an intoxicating thing to be trusted so much. It makes his soul squeeze as they work, and Edge doesn’t even try to help. He’s a welcome weight in Sans’ lap, where he can hold him steady, the cum from his soul gently wiped away.

The silence isn’t awkward, but Sans half-wonders how they’re going to unweave the pattern. He imagines that they’ll have to do it all over again, and if he’s being honest, he doesn’t think he has it in him. In fact, Sans is pretty sure _Edge_ doesn’t have it in him. For a Papyrus, Edge looks extremely worn out and Sans doesn’t know how to feel about that. Accomplished? He’s gonna go with accomplished.

For all his usual dirty talk, Red’s suspiciously quiet. Sans studies him as he works to get all the silvery fluid from Edge’s rib cage, switching out one washcloth for another when it gets to be too difficult to work with or too cold. Edge just sighs, and when he does, there’s conflict in Red’s eyes.

And then it’s gone, daring Sans to say something. Sans doesn’t, just strokes Edge’s shoulder in soothing circles as Edge comes down from it all. It’s not lost on him that Edge is drifting off.

“Hey, bud, don’t fall asleep just yet,” Red says, his voice low as though to not startle his brother awake after all. Sans feels Edge’s breath push against him, warm and long. “Gotta get this off of ya first. Y’want a pic? Looks pretty decent.”

Sans blushes despite himself when Edge makes a nondescript sound, then raises his head from Sans’ chest as though it’s going to help him see what his brother means. Red waves at him to lie back down, you idiot, otherwise Edge’ll disturb the lacing, and he’s _just_ calmed down. Begrudgingly, Edge nods, a hazy red eye light aimed in his brother’s direction.

Sans isn’t sure how to feel about the way Red pulls out his phone, a quirk to his grin like he’d finally shed the doofy soft exterior for his usual gremlin personality. He pulls one of Edge’s legs open, then considers, grabs Sans’ free hand and pulls it down towards the top of the diamonds, ignoring the way Sans balks and colours in protest.

Then he lines the shot and snaps the photo, a memento for later. With how brightly Sans’ joints are glowing, there’s no mistaking whose hand that is. Red grins to him, bright and triumphant. They’ll probably have it framed later, because it’s Red and he’s got a fine appreciation for the erotic arts.

While he’s fooling around, Edge finally stops trembling. His magic’s warm and he’s dozy, curled up against Sans’ body. He sighs again, almost impatiently, then manages to say, “If you’re going to do it, then do it.”

He means the lacing - it has to be undone. There’s a sharpness in Red’s eyes that he knows all too well, usually when Edge has got a hand hooked into his collar, all feral and fierce. Red crawls forward and Edge feels Sans tense behind him, bracing himself for what’s next.

He’s brave to say that when there’s still tears drying on his face, like Edge knows his brother won’t wreck him even if he had the chance. But Sans managed to break down that barrier, and Edge’s body is too tired to struggle with it when Red starts to free him, all sharp teeth and grinning like the devil.

He starts at the simple little bow at the top, the one Sans tied around his spine to keep secure, then the right side first, then left, every one pulling a strangled huff from Edge like he’s stepping on hot coals.

He’s breathless and Sans holds him throughout, murmuring “almost there” against his skull like he doesn’t see it coming. His soul throbs, aching and tight, one last orgasm lured out of hiding when Red pulls the longest end through the shortest part, drawing out the length of ribbon until Edge is shuddering and can’t contain his voice. His magic snaps into place with his sacrum freed, then it disperses with a crackle of hot crimson energy and the air tingles.

“You’re an a-ass!” Edge moans, all scandalised as Red mockingly pats his head like he’s going to swat it off instead. The only thing that’s stopping him is softness in his eyes, the bare quirk of his grin that speaks of something else.

Edge’s shoulders hike up a bare fraction when Red goes down to rub at his overworked pelvic bone, ushering a frustrated huff from him as Sans protests something from behind him. It’s to resituate the magic, heavy and hot and formless in the cradle of his pelvis, after being disrupted for so long. Edge just shudders, and Red explains the details to a very invested Sans who’s asking if it’s really necessary.

It is, though not really. Red’s just… very thorough.

It occurs a little later to Edge, after they’re curled up in each other’s business, that he had essentially failed in a way. He didn’t tell Sans how he felt during the whole scene; he’d been so intent on keeping control of himself that when he finally broke, Sans looked stunned and skittish.

But in the end… he’d looked so satisfied. And that’s all that really mattered, wasn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> (I forgot to mention at posting time that this is a somewhat distant continuation of my fic [Paracords](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16901112) 😊💦💦)


End file.
